


Letting Go

by murderousfiligree



Category: Re-Animator (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderousfiligree/pseuds/murderousfiligree
Summary: In which Herbert West attempts to comfort a grieving Dan Cain.





	Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after Re-Animator and before Bride of Re-animator. Can be read alone or as a companion piece to _Beloved_.

Seen from the road, Christchurch Cemetery looked deserted. Its iron gate, though intact, had grown brown with rust. Its trees, which flanked the gate on three sides, clawed sightlessly at the stark blue sky. The low crackling of these frozen sentinels, whose branches glistened with a skin of ice, seemed loud as gunfire in the relative stillness. Even the crows, whose throaty calls filled the graveyard at all hours, were absent from their usual post on the mausoleum roof. It was unseasonably cold; perhaps the birds had fled Arkham altogether, seeking warmer pastures.   

Were a passerby to approach the gate, she might discern a figure weaving through the headstones. This figure’s brisk, purposeful walk suggested he was no idle wanderer, yet he carried no flowers, unless they were crushed into the pocket of his oversized black coat. To what, or to whom, was he headed in such a hurry?

If our imagined spectator happened to look down, she would notice two sets of tracks in the snow, which had fallen earlier that morning. Now alert to the presence of a second visitor, she might look closely at the space between graves, and at last spot the kneeling figure of Dan Cain, mostly obscured by a monument to the virgin Mary. If her eyes were keen, she might even discern his expression: ugly and twisted with grief.

The walking man, none other than Herbert West, halted beside his kneeling counterpart. Dan did not appear to notice him.

“It’s freezing,” Herbert said. “How long have you been out here?”

Dan’s gaze remained fixed on the monument. Though the statue’s eyes seemed to meet his own, he felt no absolution.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “What time is it?”

“Nearly noon.”

“Then it’s been an hour.”

A gust of wind stirred the snow, flinging it against Dan’s red sweater. He wore no coat. His gloveless hands looked red and raw.

“Is this what Meg would have wanted, Dan? For you to sit here like a fool, catching frostbite?”

He lowered his eyes but said nothing.

Herbert stepped between Dan and the monument, partially obscuring the two names which adorned its base; Meg Halsey and her father had been buried together.  

“Get up. We’re going.”

“Where?”  
  
“Does it matter?” Herbert peeled off his gray mittens and tossed them into Dan’s lap with unconcealed disdain. “Put these on.”

Dan obeyed while Herbert shoved his own exposed hands into his pockets. Stealing one last look at the monument’s mournful face, he staggered to his feet. His whole body seemed to ache with cold.

“It’s not far,” Herbert said. “Follow me.”

Dan obliged with some reluctance.

* * *

Downtown Arkham was a dismal place. In a few weeks, strings of lights would hang from the gambrel-roofed shops and holly wreaths would adorn the lampposts; now, in the middle of one of the coldest Novembers in the town’s history, the shops were closed, the posts were bare, and the streets were nearly empty.

“Come on.” Herbert cut across the street diagonally, towards the theatre. “We’re nearly there.”

A teenager with frazzled, bleached hair was stationed at the box office, reading a magazine. She did not look up as they approached.

“Two for _Back to the Future_ , please,” Herbert said.

“That’ll be six dollars and seventy-five cents.” The girl’s eyes stayed glued to her copy of _Seventeen_.

Dan watched this exchange with open curiosity. “I didn’t know you were into science fiction.”

“I’m not,” Herbert said, sliding the cash through the hole in the window. “It’s juvenile.”

“Then why are we here?”  
  
“Is there something else you’d prefer to do today?”

Dan pursed his lips. His hands, still thawing inside Herbert’s wool mittens, were beginning to throb. “Guess not.”

Herbert handed him the ticket. Dan accepted it without further comment.

* * *

When they emerged from the Arkham theatre, the sun had begun its westward descent. The girl in the box office was dozing, magazine tucked beneath her folded arms. Though Dan’s hands had finally recovered from the ordeal in the cemetery, he still wore Herbert’s mittens.

“Well, that was atrocious,” Herbert said. It was the first complete sentence he’d uttered in more than two hours; his movie commentary had consisted entirely of scoffs and derisive snorts.

“I liked it,” Dan said. “I liked it a lot, actually.”

“Then I suppose it served its purpose.”

Silence stretched between them. It was a fifteen minute walk back to the house, but the afternoon was warming, at least.

“Do you think that could really happen?” Dan said at last.

“What?”

“Time travel. Not with a souped up DeLorean, obviously, but…” his voice trailed off. “Could someone ever go back?”

“How should I know?” Herbert squinted into the sun. “I’m going to be a doctor, not a physicist.”

Dan snorted. “Was that a _Star Trek_ reference?”

“Not an intentional one.”  

“Uh-huh. You know, Herbert, I’m not sure I believe you hate science fiction. I think you secretly enjoyed that movie.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

Dan grinned. “C’mon. You can tell me.”

“I watched one film for your sake,” Herbert said tersely. “I don’t intend to make a habit of it.”

“Don’t worry.” Dan gave a conspiratorial wink. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Herbert rolled his eyes but did not deign to defend himself. The wind was picking up again, and Dan crossed his arms against the cold.

“I don’t think it’s possible,” Herbert said, apropos of nothing.

“What?”

“Time travel.”

“Oh.” Dan’s face fell. “Yeah, I don’t think so, either. It’s too bad.” He tapped a rock with his foot, sending it skittering down the sidewalk. “There’s a lot I wish I could change.”

“No use dwelling on it, Dan.”

“Yeah.”

The cemetery was rising into view. Next to it, obscured by trees, sat the little house Herbert had been so eager to purchase. Their new home, for better or for worse.

“Herbert,” Dan said, slowing his pace. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Go ahead.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Dan half-expected Herbert to burst out laughing; the idea of his roommate fawning over a girl was almost too bizarre to imagine. But the man seemed to consider the question, his expression thoughtful.

“Once,” he said.

“Once?” Dan echoed.

“Yes.”

Dan stopped in his tracks. “That’s all you have to say? _Yes_? C’mon, Herbert, what was she like?”

Herbert halted a few paces from Dan, at the foot of the driveway. “Smart. Kind. A devoted Catholic, but no one is perfect.”

Not the detailed description Dan had been hoping for, but Herbert’s sheepish mien was enough to convince him that it was genuine. “Did she break up with you?”

“No.”

“Then you broke up with her?”  
  
“No.”

“Then what happened?”

“Lab accident.”

Herbert seemed to take Dan’s bewildered silence as the conversation’s natural end; he resumed his walk toward the house.  
  
“You mean she _died_?” Dan called after him.

“Yes,” Herbert said, as if death were a perfectly natural conclusion to one’s first romance. He began to fumble with his keys.

“Jesus, Herbert.” Dan joined him on the porch. “I’m real sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He slipped the key into the lock, his exposed fingers red with cold. “It was a long time ago.”

Dan reached out to touch Herbert’s shoulder, but withdrew the hand before it made contact. Given the man’s aversion to sentiment, he didn’t think the gesture would be appreciated.

“What was her name?” he asked instead.

“Tristan.”

“Tristan?” Dan repeated. His brows furrowed. “Strange name for a woman.”

“Yes,” Herbert agreed. “It certainly is.”

They entered the house together—Dan’s expression puzzled, Herbert’s as unreadable as ever.  



End file.
